


The Worst You Can Do Is Harm

by chamel



Series: Impostors [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (though it's not shown as requited in this fic), Accidental Cuddling, Angst, Board Games, Caretaking, Caring Illya, Domestic Bliss, Drinking, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Hurt/Comfort, ILLYA COOKING, Injury Recovery, M/M, Misunderstandings, Napoleon pov, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Rain, Sharing a Bed, Stupid Boys, Unresolved Emotional Tension, and he's secretly good at it, but there's a twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28217283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamel/pseuds/chamel
Summary: Napoleon watches him turn into the lobby of his building and forces himself to remain at the window until he hears a key turn in the door behind him. Forces his face into a careful expression that saysI’m pleased to see youand notI’ve been waiting for your return like a pining Victorian maiden.(It is more difficult to do than he would care to admit.)For his part, Illya’s scowling expression conveys nothing more than his distaste with the weather, and Napoleon can hardly blame him for that, even if he wishes that just once Illya’s face would light up to see him. Wouldn’t that be a thing?(Napoleon is confined to a wheelchair and stuck in his apartment while recovering from a broken ankle, so Illya takes care of him. Set during the events of Little By Little.)
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Impostors [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2062662
Comments: 16
Kudos: 68





	The Worst You Can Do Is Harm

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, here's Napoleon's perspective on the time period briefly alluded to in [Little By Little](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27840028/chapters/68158756) during which Illya takes care of him while he's recovering from a broken ankle, and they get all domestic. This can actually be read on it's own, you don't need to have read the previous work at all for it to make sense, but I highly recommend you do otherwise you'll probably be pretty sad at the end of this (the happy ending for this situation occurs in the other fic). I don't know how this ballooned into two-thirds the length of Little by Little, but I couldn't stop writing domestic scenes for these two.
> 
> Title/lyrics/inspiration from the song "Scent of Lime" by the Long Winters.

_My part in your art is to be there_  
_You're right, I’m wasting such a meager grace_  
_It never rains enough to cool my fever_  
_All it does is rain_

Why does it have to be so fucking rainy every day? Yeah, spring in New York is rainy, he gets it—April showers and all that. This year the city is drowning, though, gutters constantly choked to overflowing by the continual outpouring from the dour, slate-grey skies.

Napoleon supposes he should be thankful, to some extent. At least he doesn’t have to go out in it. Of course, that brings up an entirely different issue. He hasn’t left his apartment in weeks, not even for a check-up, thanks to the home visits of UNCLE’s medical team. His ankle is healing well, but slowly, like ankles do, leaving him confined to a wheelchair and under strict house arrest. He’s basically become Jimmy Stewart in _Rear Window_ , except he’s an actual spy and already knows so much about his neighbors that watching them is a moot point by now. If one of them would do something so interesting as commit a murder it would be a relief.

He is so _terribly_ bored.

With a huff into the silence of the apartment he shoves a bookmark into the doorstop of a novel that Illya had brought over for him and tosses it onto the coffee table. The resulting thunk reverberates for a second in the room before it’s swallowed by the low patter of the drumming rain on the windows. He’s not ungrateful, but there’s only so much Dostoyevsky he can take in one sitting without feeling like he needs to wheel himself out onto the balcony to sit in the downpour and contemplate the misery of human nature.

(He tried, once, and was roundly scolded by Illya for getting his cast wet. Not to mention that the balcony wasn’t really wide enough for the wheelchair, so the whole thing had been rather more precarious than was sensible. Since when has Napoleon ever been accused of being _sensible_ , though?)

Probably he should try to pick up some of the random dishes and clothes that have become scattered around the apartment in the last few days. Illya and Gaby are due to return today, which means there is a high probability that Illya will stop by as long as their flight doesn’t get in too late. Not that Napoleon has been counting the days or anything.

He sighs and wheels himself over to the window so he can stare out at the streets below. A patchwork of umbrellas—some brightly colored, some utilitarian black—nearly blankets the sidewalks at this time of day, so that it seems that one could almost walk under cover the entire way; the reality is that the dense thicket of wire and fabric just means that you’re more likely to get jabbed in the eye if you’re not carrying an umbrella yourself.

Over the past few weeks he’s come to recognize some of the umbrellas that cross below his apartment at commuting times. There’s one with rather psychedelic stripes, one with a truly eye-searing collection of florals, and the girl with the polka-dotted clear bubble umbrella. He has made up entire life stories for the people who carry these umbrellas, mostly based on little more than a flash of shoes or the hem of a coat.

He’s _really_ bored, ok?

There’s no telling how long he sits there, staring almost blankly out into the world, when he sees a figure on the street that snaps him out of his reverie. This man never carries an umbrella, even in the heaviest downpours. Instead he weaves steadily between them, standing nearly a head above the majority, with only an undoubtedly-soaked newsboy hat and the rain coat Napoleon insisted he buy after one too many episodes with a drenched leather bomber jacket. Today he’s carrying a paper bag that will disintegrate the moment he sets it onto the counter in Napoleon’s kitchen, and the sight makes Napoleon’s heart clench in his chest.

Napoleon watches him turn into the lobby of his building and forces himself to remain at the window until he hears a key turn in the door behind him. Forces his face into a careful expression that says _I’m pleased to see you_ and not _I’ve been waiting for your return like a pining Victorian maiden_. (It is more difficult to do than he would care to admit.)

For his part, Illya’s scowling expression conveys nothing more than his distaste with the weather, and Napoleon can hardly blame him for that, even if he wishes that just once Illya’s face would light up to see him. Wouldn’t that be a thing?

Well, he takes what he can get, which is more than he deserves. Napoleon wheels his way over to where Illya stands dripping onto the mat in the entryway and takes the sodden bag out of his hands, ignoring how the cold rainwater soaks immediately through his robe and the pajamas underneath. Hell, he almost welcomes the sensation. At least it’s something different.

“What’s for dinner, Peril?” he asks by way of a greeting, craning his neck to try to peer down into the bag.

“You’ll see soon enough,” Illya grumbles as he hangs up his coat and hooks his hat over the top of the coat rack, revealing a mottled purple bruise on the right side of his forehead with a short cut at its center held together by a small white butterfly bandage.

Napoleon frowns. For the most part Waverly has been sending Illya and Gaby on lower-stakes missions, and there had been nothing about this one that suggested the potential for injuries, however minor. Napoleon had reviewed all of the intel himself, after all; Waverly quickly learned that benching Napoleon was easier said than done, and that he might as well put his agent’s idle mind to good use during his convalescence. On any given day, Illya will often show up at Napoleon’s apartment with a stack full of case files and mission reports for him to look at (and Napoleon is usually bored enough to want to do it).

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be resting at home?” Napoleon scolds. Illya looks confused for a moment, and Napoleon suspects that he’s already forgotten about the injury, so he gestures vaguely at his own forehead.

“It’s nothing, Cowboy,” Illya huffs.

“What did medical say?”

Illya’s lips narrow almost imperceptibly, which is answer enough. “I can rest here,” he mutters under his breath before he pulls the bag of groceries out of Napoleon’s hands and stalks off toward the kitchen, leaving Napoleon to wheel after him.

“We can just order in from Madame Wa’s,” Napoleon suggests, cringing when Illya looks pointedly at the old takeout containers still sitting on the counter. He really should have taken care of those. “Ok, fine. Pizza from Vincenzo’s?”

Illya cocks an eyebrow at him and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Dreading my cooking, are you?”

“Of course not, Peril,” Napoleon scoffs. Truth be told, Illya is a more than capable cook, though he’d never gotten the chance to find out before all of this. “You do know you’re not going to be able to get away with foisting all the cooking onto me on missions from now on, right?”

“Foisting,” Illya echoes dryly as he unpacks the bag. “I don’t think it counts as ‘foisting’ when you immediately take over the kitchen in every safehouse. Besides, your interfering will be even more insufferable when you can actually stand.”

“I do not interfere,” Napoleon retorts, putting on his best offended look. “I sometimes make _suggestions_.” That manages to get Illya’s mouth to curl into a tiny smile even as he hums his uncertainty at this assertion, and a thrill of victory surges through Napoleon. “Maybe I’ll just leave, then, if I’m unwanted,” he sniffs. “Go back out to the living room.”

Illya’s lips twist as he tries to fight back the smile. “You won’t. You’re too bored,” he says. “You have nothing better to do than annoy me.”

It’s clearly said as a joke, but that doesn’t stop a narrow knife of self-doubt from slipping its way between between Napoleon’s ribs. Surely if Illya only found him annoying he wouldn’t spend so much time here, right? Surely he’d just let Napoleon get by on takeout and UNCLE’s grocery deliveries instead of coming by nearly every night when he’s not on a mission. Of course, it could be that Illya feels responsible for Napoleon’s current condition—the broken ankle had been a result of Napoleon leaping down from a second-floor balcony onto an attacker that was moments away from gutting Illya, after all—and that’s the real reason he comes over.

Napoleon pushes the thoughts away; he knows the Russian cares for him, in his own way, even if that way doesn’t remotely approach the way Napoleon wishes he would. Something of the brief melancholy must show on his face, though, because Illya frowns. “Something wrong, Cowboy?”

“Of course not, Peril,” he answers, putting on an only somewhat strained smile. “So what _are_ we eating tonight?”

Illya has unpacked eggs, milk, butter, and, more tellingly, a cabbage, onions, and bundle wrapped in butcher paper. Something slavic, perhaps. His partner doesn’t always default to his native cuisine, but Napoleon has learned that he often does so after a mission. Perhaps it’s some desire for comfort, or home, or perhaps he just gets tired of eating the food of wherever they happen to be sent (Copenhagen, in this case).

“Pierogi,” Illya says simply as he pushes the ingredients to the side and pulls a set of mixing bowls out of the cabinet in front of him. A moment later, he grabs the flour from the pantry almost without looking, because he was the last one to use it, after all. It will be a miracle if Napoleon can find anything in his own kitchen when this is done.

“Not the simplest dish to make,” Napoleon comments as he watches. “I thought you were going to rest?”

Illya shrugs and dumps a seemingly arbitrary volume of flour into the bowl. For someone who is so precise and exacting on a mission, he is surprisingly cavalier about measuring things in the kitchen. “I can rest while the dough rises.”

He does no such thing, however. Once the dough has come together Illya covers the bowl with a kitchen towel and sets it to the side, then begins breaking down the cabbage. They chat about the mission as he works, and then about what Napoleon has learned from the last batch of files that Illya brought by before he’d left, as they usually do. Then Illya pretends to ignore Napoleon’s seasoning suggestions as he sautés the onions and cabbage together with the meat, though Napoleon sees him grab a few jars of herbs when Illya thinks he’s not looking. As they usually do.

It’s all become rather routine in a way that is decidedly distressing if Napoleon considers it too carefully. He has let himself become too comfortable with this, too accustomed to Illya’s presence. It is far too easy to slip into the fantasy world where Illya taking the time to make him homemade pierogi means more than it really does. Where Illya comes _home_ at the end of the day instead of just coming _over_. (And, lord help him, he does let himself slip into it, all the time, despite the fact he knows it’s a terrible idea.)

The pierogi are delicious. The exteriors are tender and the filling is savory and well-seasoned, which Napoleon takes a little credit for, at least privately. He eats far too many and he might regret it later, but right now he’s full and happy and letting himself bask in the warmth of a well-cooked meal.

“I don’t understand how you can completely eyeball the ingredients for that dough and have it come out like that,” Napoleon says, gesturing at the meager pile of leftover pierogi in the middle of the table.

Illya shrugs. “I made them many times with my grandmother when I was a child,” he says. He pauses, and then a teasing spark flashes in his eyes as a smirk tugs on his lips. “Or maybe I am just a better cook than you.”  
  
“I’m starting to think you are,” Napoleon retorts. It comes out a little more earnest than he intended.

“Bah.” Illya waves off the compliment, though Napoleon doesn’t miss the way the tips of his ears darken red. “I cannot do any of that fancy stuff that you do.”  
  
“Oh, that stuff is all just frills. Being able to do that doesn’t make me better. Besides,” Napoleon adds, “I seem to remember that someone frequently complains about my fussy cooking on missions.”

Illya huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Yes. On _missions_. That is no time for complicated, indulgent dishes.”

“Says you. Admit it, you’ve missed it these past missions, just a little bit.”

Something shifts between them at that, and Napoleon realizes too late that he’s pushed too far. In another circumstance the words would be nothing more than his typical needling arrogance, something for Illya and Gaby to roll their eyes at, but his current vulnerable state seems to give them a different tenor. Illya’s gaze shifts to the window, out into the darkness beyond the apartment, and he presses his lips together in that way that means he’s holding something back.

“I have missed your cooking, Cowboy,” he answers quietly. The silence that follows is broken only by the lashing of the rain against the windows, and a moment later Illya pushes his chair back from the table. “I should get going.”

Napoleon only just manages to hold back a wince, but can’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. “You’re going out again in this weather?”

It’s not a given, after all. Illya does sometimes spend the night in Napoleon’s second bedroom; it had been more frequent at the beginning of Napoleon’s convalescence, when he needed more help, and has tailed off some since then. It’s somewhat obvious that his partner has been trying to keep his distance—he refuses to keep more than a single change of clothes at the apartment at any given time, for pete’s sake—but Napoleon had still hoped that the storm and the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in nearly a week might have kept Illya there tonight.

“I’ve barely set foot inside my own apartment,” Illya says, a touch of something like amusement coloring his tone now.

He gathers the dishes and carries them into the kitchen, and for once, Napoleon doesn’t follow. Instead he rolls himself slowly over to the bar cart, pouring a few fingers of whiskey into a tumbler and using it to chase back his pain pills.

“Please tell me you don’t do that often,” Illya says from behind him.

“Huh?” Napoleon replies, twisting in the chair to see his partner frowning at him, arms crossed over his chest. He glances down at the tumbler in his hand. “Oh, no. Well, sometimes. It’s expedient.”

“It’s dangerous,” Illya scolds.

“Yes, mother,” Napoleon mutters under his breath. The pleasant mood he’d basked in earlier has fled, and even though he knows he’s being petulant, he can’t quite stop himself. He drops the tumbler back onto the cart and makes to refill it, but Illya crosses the room in a couple of long strides, plucks the decanter from Napoleon’s hand, and pushes the wheelchair away from the bar cart, ignoring the protests that result.

“You’ve had enough to drink tonight,” Illya says sternly, depositing him within view of the kitchen.

“Not your call,” Napoleon retorts, too quietly for Illya to hear him, and then adds, louder, “I’ll just go back over there when you’re gone, you know.”

Illya ignores him and sets about to washing the dishes, which just manages to make Napoleon feel like an ungrateful asshole. The man came over the same day he got back from a mission to cook for him, with a head injury no less, and this is how Napoleon thanks him? By getting grumpy when Illya does things that disturb the illusion that this is something more than it is?

If he were a better person, Napoleon would get over himself and go keep Illya company, but he’s not. In this moment he just can’t face the kindness and forgiveness that he knows Illya will give him—whether out of pity or because Illya _is_ a better person—and which he absolutely does not deserve. Instead he wheels himself back out to the living room to stew in self-recrimination and self-pity. He can at least recognize, underneath it all, that his frustration at his own helplessness and uselessness is what’s feeding the flames of this particular mood. Not that it makes it any easier to snap out of it.

A little while later Illya reemerges from the kitchen; Napoleon is facing away from him, pretending to read, but he can hear him stop near the front door. “Do you need anything before I go?” he asks, his voice gentle.

“I’ll be fine, Peril,” Napoleon answers, because the actual answer to that question is impossible to voice. He does not look up, because he cannot take the expression of careful concern that he knows Illya is wearing right now.

There’s a pause as Illya seems to consider this—it wasn’t, after all, much of an answer to the question—and then Napoleon hears the rustle of fabric as Illya puts on his coat. “See you tomorrow, Cowboy,” he says softly, and then a moment later the front door clicks shut behind him.

* * *

“What do you want for dinner tonight, Cowboy?”

Usually when Napoleon’s phone rings it’s Illya or Gaby—or occasionally even Waverly—wanting to talk about a mission or asking his opinion on a file, so much so that when it had rung today he’d grabbed the file that Illya had brought by the previous night and carried it with him over to the phone, just to be prepared. But no: this time it’s dinner requests. That might be a first.

“You thinking takeout?” he asks, because it makes the most sense that Illya is just asking where Napoleon wants him to stop on his way over.

“No takeout. What do you want me to cook?”

Huh. Well, if he’s asking… “Cassoulet,” Napoleon answers, letting a hint of a sigh sneak into his voice. It’s been a long time since he’s had a proper cassoulet, and something about the grey, dreary weather makes him crave it. Memories rainy Paris springtimes, perhaps, about a carefree part of his life long since passed.

“Doesn’t that take a long time?” Illya asks, his skepticism obvious even over the line.

“Yes. But you did ask.”

“It’s a weekday, Cowboy. I doubt Waverly will let me out early to cook you a fussy dinner.”

“Cassoulet is hardly fussy, Peril,” Napoleon argues, just for the hell of it. He doesn’t actually think Illya is going to cook him cassoulet, but it’s fun to imagine. “It’s peasant food. You just throw everything in a pot and let it cook.”

Illya sighs. “Maybe another time.”

“Whatever you want, then,” Napoleon tells him. “I’m easy.”

Illya does not take the bait to make a snide comment about Napoleon’s amorous habits and instead just hums over the line, like he’s thinking. “What do you think about Roderick?”

So he _did_ call to talk about the file. They chat for a little longer until Illya says he as to get back to work, muttering something about being later than usual tonight. Which Napoleon finds a little suspicious, because if that was true why had Illya started off with a question about dinner? The whole thing is odd, but it’s not like he can do anything except sit in his apartment and wait to find out what Illya is up to.

It’s only a little after two in the afternoon when a key clatters in the lock of the front door to Napoleon’s apartment. He’s dozing over some reports on intel gathered on a recent op in Ireland, in that half-awake, half-asleep state where everything is a little unreal, so the unexpected opening of his front door makes him jerk awake in a way that means it’s impossible to pretend he hadn’t been sleeping. When he finally blinks himself to full alertness he finds Illya standing in the entryway, looking at him with an expression that could almost be called fond.

“Mission reports are that scintillating, huh?”

Napoleon glances down at the file on his lap and huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “Not these. Be glad Waverly didn’t send you on this one, you might have died of boredom.”

“I would never complain about a boring mission, Cowboy, if it means getting what we need and no one gets hurt,” Illya says. It must not be raining much anymore, because he looks barely damp as he sets the bag of groceries on the ground so he can take off his coat.

“I suppose you’re right,” Napoleon allows. “So what happened to getting here later? You do realize this is, in fact, the opposite of late?”

Illya doesn’t answer, but his lips twist into a tiny, sly smile as he picks up the bag of groceries and heads to the kitchen. By the time Napoleon wheels himself into the kitchen Illya is in the midst of unpacking the bag, and as soon as Napoleon sees the jar of confit duck legs, he knows exactly what is going on.

“You didn’t,” he says, still not quite believing it. Illya’s smile gets larger despite his best efforts to the contrary, and Napoleon gasps. “You _did_. How did you even know the ingredients?”  
  
“They make these things called recipes, Cowboy,” Illya teases. “I am, in fact, capable of following one.”

“I’m sure you are. So what did you tell Waverly, then?”

Illya shrugs. “Said I had a headache and asked to work from home for the rest of the day.”

“You think he bought it?” Napoleon asks, trying not to sound too skeptical. It’s not that Illya’s not a good liar when he wants to be, but it’s kind of a weak excuse.

“No. But he let me go anyway.”

Napoleon doesn’t quite know what to say. The idea that Illya would beg off from work just to come by early and cook him dinner is more than a little overwhelming. He finds himself watching Illya finish unpacking the bag without actually processing any of it, so much so that he starts in surprise when Illya drops a file into his lap.

“You can repay me by checking the numbers on that,” his partner says. “I’m supposed to have it done by tomorrow morning.”

Napoleon’s lips twist into a wry smile. “Oh, I see how it is. You think I’ll do whatever you want if you come over and butter me up by cooking me fancy dinners.”

“Is it working?”

More than he knows. Just when Napoleon thought he couldn’t fall any more in love with Illya Kuryakin, the bastard goes and does something like this. Of course, there’s already very little that he wouldn’t do for Illya, and he suspects that Illya knows this despite his best efforts.

“Maybe,” he harrumphs, though he’s unable to fully keep the smile off his face. He turns the wheelchair toward the door. “Well I guess I’ll be trying not to fall asleep while I run these numbers, if you need me.”

“You mean all I had to do to get you out of the kitchen was give you work to do?” Illya calls after him. By now he’s grinning broadly, not even trying to mask his glee, and he’s so achingly beautiful like this that Napoleon feels like his heart is going to burst.

“Very funny, Peril,” Napoleon says, as sarcastically as he can manage. “For that, I’ll make sure to come check on you regularly.”

It’s not long before the scent of frying garlic fills the apartment, and Napoleon’s mouth starts watering almost immediately. Concentrating on the numbers in Illya’s file becomes harder and harder by the minute, because as much as he loves eating cassoulet, he enjoys cooking it too, and he wants nothing more than to be in the kitchen. Cooking is a way he relaxes, so not being able to cook his own meals for this long has been more than a little frustrating.

He makes good on his promise to check up on Illya often, although it is as much to spend time with his partner as it is to monitor the cooking. Illya doesn’t need his supervision, anyway. He works with quiet confidence in the kitchen, as he does in so many things, and Napoleon sometimes finds himself transfixed for extended stretches of time. Watching long, graceful fingers carefully prep each ingredient, the knife rocking hypnotically over the cutting board, a little furrow of concentration forming between his brows.

Not that he doesn’t have opinions on the process. Napoleon questions nearly every step of whatever recipe Illya is using, contradicting everything from the amount of thyme to the proper order of putting everything together. His interference nets him more than a few eye rolls, but he’s careful never to push beyond the limits of Illya’s tolerance, and most of the time his partner seems genuinely appreciative of his suggestions.

Eventually the cassoulet goes into the oven for its final, extended cook, and Illya joins him in checking over the numbers on the file he brought with him. Between the two of them they finish the rest of the work quickly and settle into more engaging pursuits for the rest of the evening. Like playing game after game of chess that Napoleon is destined to lose (and he must really be in love, given how willing he seems to be to do so). He thinks he’s getting a little better, though, or else Illya is humoring more than he used to, because some of the games stretch out for quite a while. Of course, other times Illya annihilates him in a few moves.

“Perhaps we might play a game where I’m not doomed to lose by my third move?” he suggests after a little while.

“You are doomed by your second,” Illya teases, “but we can play something else. What did you have in mind?”

Usually they play one of a handful of card games, but Napoleon has other ideas tonight. “Backgammon?” he says, grinning slyly.

Illya narrows his eyes at that. Of course he has read Napoleon’s file, knows he has a history with competitive backgammon, though they’ve never actually played a game together before. “Fine,” Illya agrees eventually. “But I am not gambling with you.”

“Aw, c’mon Peril, where’s your sense of fun? Doesn’t have to be money.” Abruptly Napoleon remembers a game of backgammon he once played where the stakes had been items of clothing, and oh, if the thought of doing that with Illya doesn’t short a circuit in his mind for a moment. Something of it must show on his face, because Illya gives him an odd look. Napoleon clears his throat and tries to school his expression back to a nonchalant smile. “Fine, no gambling.”

They agree on a set of ten games, which stretches on to more as the evening wears on. Napoleon keeps track of the points even if they aren’t technically gambling, because it really does keep things more interesting. Illya wins a few games here and there, but on the whole Napoleon slaughters him. After a series of not-so-lucky rolls of the dice leads to yet another lost round, Illya huffs moodily, scowling down at the board.

“I do not understand why you like this game so much,” he says. “All of your strategy can be undone by one bad roll of the dice.”

“Oh, but that’s _why_ I like it, Peril. Look, chess is a game of man vs. man, right? Backgammon is a game of man vs. fate, and that makes it all the more fascinating.”

Illya frowns at him. “I don’t believe in fate.”

“One could argue that fate brought us together, you know.”

“Our handlers brought us together, Cowboy,” Illya says dryly, looking supremely unimpressed by this line of conversation.

Napoleon can’t help a chuckle, and he also can’t seem to help the next words that come out of his mouth. “You’re such a romantic, Peril.”

Illya’s gaze drops to the floor at that, cheeks flushing the barest hint of pink as he presses his lips together. “I thought we were talking about backgammon,” he mutters, quiet enough that Napoleon almost can’t make it out.

“Well, as I was saying,” Napoleon offers, “the element of luck keeps things interesting.”

Illya looks unmistakably relieved to have been to thrown this bone. “But then strategy doesn’t matter, and what is the point?”

“Come now, if that were true I wouldn’t be whooping your ass handily,” Napoleon argues. “There is plenty of strategy in backgammon. You just don’t like to lose.”

“Who does?” Illya asks, the corners of his mouth quirking upward.

“Another round? Maybe luck will be with you this time.”

Illya shakes his head. “Dinner will be about ready, I think. I should go check.”

The cassoulet smells amazing when Illya emerges from the kitchen carrying a couple of bowls, setting one in front of Napoleon with little fanfare. Whatever the dish might lack in presentation it more than makes up for in flavor; the combination of garlicky sausage, unctuous duck, and creamy beans dance on his tongue, and Napoleon actually moans at the first bite. He hadn’t meant to be that vocal, honestly, but the sound was pulled from his throat before he could think better of it. He does not miss the way Illya stills and his eyes go slightly wide. Clearing his throat, Napoleon dabs at his lips with a napkin and tries to fight back a rather uncharacteristic flush of heat to his cheeks.

“You’re going to be sorry you ever started cooking for me, Peril,” he manages as he tears off a hunk of baguette from the bakery down the block and uses it to sop up some of the savory broth.

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re giving away all your secrets,” Napoleon explains. “Now I know that you’ve been hiding what an exceptional chef you are.”

Something almost like panic had flitted across Illya’s face at the mention of secrets, but it was gone as fast as it had come, leaving no clues as to what exactly he’s concerned about. “I am adequate,” he mutters, eyes focused on the plate in front of him.

“Illya, _nothing_ about this is merely adequate,” Napoleon scoffs. He realizes he may be giving away a few too many of his own secrets right now, but fuck it, Illya deserves the praise, even if it does seem to make him a little uncomfortable.

“I’m glad you are enjoying it, Cowboy,” Illya says quietly, still not meeting Napoleon’s gaze.

It’s late by the time they finish eating and Illya stands to start clearing the dishes. The evening has already been exceptional in so many ways, and Napoleon doesn’t really want to ask for more, but he’s never been all that good at resisting.

“Will you stay the night?” Napoleon asks, trying not to sound too hopeful. He should be glad that the question has lost all of it’s typical innuendo after the last few weeks, because now Illya doesn’t hear how much he means it in its more traditional interpretation.

At least, Napoleon thinks he doesn’t. Illya’s gaze on him is heavy, full of something he can’t quite read. “Yes, I will stay,” he says eventually.

“Good,” Napoleon manages, swallowing around a lump of desire in his throat. “Perhaps another game of backgammon?”

“Whatever you like, Cowboy.”

 _If only_ , Napoleon thinks, only a little miserably.

* * *

Truly, Napoleon doesn’t usually watch out the window for his arrival. He’s not _that_ hopeless. He does spend a fair amount of time staring out the window, though, and some of that time is bound to correspond with his partner’s comings and goings. Today is different, though. Today the familiar figure with the newsboy hat is accompanied by another holding a clear bubble umbrella, the brightly striped hem of her mod dress just barely peeking out below her rain coat.

Gaby has been by with some regularity during his recovery, sometimes to bring him new files from Waverly, and sometimes just to have dinner with him and Illya. Tonight, however, is a bit of a celebration: Napoleon’s cast will be coming off while she and Illya are away on their next mission, and he’s finally been weaned fully off of the narcotics. Napoleon’s not sure if he’s more looking forward to the freedom of wearing a recovery boot or not getting any more dirty looks from Illya when he drinks (who is he kidding, the boot is going to be comparatively amazing, and he’s already good at ignoring Illya’s disapproving glares).

The night goes as they usually do, these days. Illya and Gaby bring high-end takeout along with them so no one has to cook, the three of them share an evening of talking and card games, and, eventually, Gaby puts on one of the records she keeps stashed at Napoleon’s place and dances around the living room. She ropes in Illya when she can manage, and even Napoleon in his wheelchair, spinning him around in the limited space.

There is rather more dancing tonight than normal, though, ever since Gaby turned their card games into drinking games, and to Napoleon’s surprise even Illya let himself be cajoled into participating. They put a serious dent in his liquor supplies, but at least soon he’ll be able to go out on his own to replenish them, even if it’s just to the liquor store on the corner.

“Napoleon!” Gaby gasps theatrically as he dumps the last of the scotch into his tumbler.

“Like you have any room to talk,” he shoots back, waggling a finger at her. “I saw you kill the gin.”

At this accusation she puts on her best innocent expression, which is certainly hindered by her current inebriation, and tips her sunglasses down onto her face with a flourish. She’s of course wearing them inside at night, along with a spare pair of Napoleon’s pajamas that she pilfered from his dresser. The sleeves and legs are cuffed a truly absurd number of times in a vain attempt to make them fit, but she still swims in them, making her look even tinier than usual.

“Well I never,” she huffs. Then she turns and looks pointedly at Illya, who has decidedly not killed the bottle of vodka, though he’s drunker than Napoleon has seen him in quite a while.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he slurs, accent thick, glowering in a way that might be threatening if he wasn’t partly folded in on himself in a corner of the couch. “Bottle was full-ier. Fuller. More _full_. Than yours.” He hiccups, then glowers even more when Napoleon bursts into laughter.

The festivities don’t last much past that. Somehow Illya manages to get Gaby to shuffle off to bed _before_ she passes out completely, which is pretty impressive given both of their states. Then he returns to grab the handles of Napoleon’s wheelchair and starts pushing him toward the master bedroom.

“Hey!” Napoleon protests, because he can certainly maneuver himself around, thank you. “Who says I’m ready to turn in?”

Illya cocks an eyebrow at him when he starts yawning halfway through. “Me,” he grunts.

“ _Well_ ,” Napoleon says, because he has no other response to that.

They wheel over next to the bed, and Napoleon throws back the rest of the whisky in his glass before he slides it onto the bedside table. He doesn’t really need help getting into bed anymore, so he doesn’t expect his partner to lean over and grab him under his arms like Illya used to back when he’d first broken his ankle. A rather undignified yelp of surprise escapes his lips when Illya lifts him into the bed, bending low over him as he does so that briefly their faces are only inches apart. He must imagine that Illya’s gaze drops to his mouth for a moment, he _must_ , because that cannot have been a real thing that happened. In any case, it only lasts for a fleeting second, and then Illya is pulling away again, leaving cold air to wash over Napoleon’s heated face in the absence of his warm breath.

“Stay,” Napoleon murmurs, tightening his grip on Illya’s arm.

“I was not going to leave, Cowboy,” Illya tells him, even as he tries to stand up straight.

Napoleon shakes his head and does not relinquish his hold. “No, I mean stay here,” he says. He spreads his other hand out over the empty stretch of bed next to him. “Since Gaby’s in the guest bed.”

An odd expression that Napoleon can’t quite read in his current state flashes over Illya’s face. Something like surprise and fear, though Napoleon doesn’t know what he has to be afraid of. It’s just a bed, and it’s plenty big.

“I will sleep on couch,” Illya answers, still trying to draw away.

“You won’t,” Napoleon snorts. “It’s far too small for you. C’mon,” he adds encouragingly, “I barely move at night with this thing on my leg, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“‘m not _worried_ ,” Illya mumbles, though it sounds distinctly like it’s coming through clenched teeth.

Napoleon gives a little tug on Illya’s arm and is momentarily surprised when his partner acquiesces, taking a step closer and swaying ever so slightly as he does. “Should probably go get your pajamas before Gaby locks you out of the other room, though,” Napoleon suggests, finally letting go when Illya nods.

When Illya reappears a few minutes later he’s wearing his pajamas and a rather apprehensive expression. He walks around to the open side of the bed, eyes never leaving Napoleon, and then stands there for a moment like he still hasn’t made up his mind about this. Napoleon does his best to smile invitingly—but not _too_ invitingly? Fuck, he can’t fully control his face right now anyway—and pats the mattress next to him. Finally, Illya peels back the covers and climbs in, then proceeds to lie there as stiff as a board.

Napoleon bites back a sigh as he reaches over to turn the lamp off. Possibly this wasn’t the greatest idea he’s had. Well, it’s only one night. What’s the worst that could happen?

* * *

It’s true that Napoleon doesn’t move much in the bed; his body seemed to figure out early on that trying to shift or turn would be accompanied by enough pain from his ankle to wake him, so for the most part these days he wakes up in the same position he falls asleep in.

The same cannot be said for Illya.

Napoleon wakes to the sensation of a warm body pressed against his side, the heavy weight of an arm draped over his waist, and someone else’s legs tangled in his. In some corner of his sleep-addled mind, before he has opened his eyes, he wonders where he managed to get a bed partner in his current condition. But then he breathes in a very familiar and distinctive collection of scents that could only belong to one person, and he snaps fully awake in an instant.

If he had hoped that Illya might not notice the way his entire body tensed involuntarily, he is doomed to be disappointed. Almost immediately, Illya’s steady breathing stutters to a halt and he freezes, his arm tightening over Napoleon’s waist for a few short seconds before he fully understands the position he’s currently in. Then he abruptly scrambles backwards, limbs flailing wildly and eyes wide in a look of unmistakable horror, until he reaches the edge of the bed and tips over it, falling with a thunk to the floor.

That, Napoleon thinks ruefully, is probably the worst that could happen.

A minute or so passes and Illya doesn’t reappear, so eventually Napoleon pulls himself to the other edge of the bed, trying to ignore how much the sheets smell like Illya, and peers down at the ground. He certainly had not expected to see his partner lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling with something like a thousand-yard-stare. Surely waking up next to Napoleon couldn’t have been _that_ traumatizing, could it? (Immediately, he knows that he does not actually want to know the answer that question; it is little consolation that Illya’s reaction might have more to do with waking up like that with a _man_ , not just Napoleon.)

“Uh, you ok?” Napoleon asks.

Illya startles, as if he hadn’t realized Napoleon was there, and pushes himself back another few inches as he sits up. A small sigh escapes Napoleon’s lips before he can stop it, but he does manage bite back a joke about not realizing Illya was such a cuddler. Something tells him it won’t be well received.

“Sorry,” Illya blurts, eyes still painfully wide as he turns distinctly red in the face. “I— I didn’t— I don’t—”

“Hey,” Napoleon interrupts, before Illya says something he definitely doesn’t want to hear, “it’s ok, Peril. No big deal.”

He’s impressed with how steady his own voice sounds. No big deal, he says, about this revelation. No big deal, getting his worst fears confirmed. No big deal, finding out that the man he’s in love with is horrified at the idea of holding him. No big deal, having the illusion that they could ever be together so thoroughly shattered.

 _No big deal_.

“Solo? Is everything ok in there?” Gaby calls from outside the bedroom door. “I heard a thump.”

“Fine,” Napoleon answers, flopping onto his back. “I’m… fine.”

There’s a beat, and then she asks, “where is Illya?”

Illya is on his feet by then, striding across to the door and pulling it open seemingly without a second thought. A look of surprise flashes across Gaby’s face for an instant at the sight of him—pajamas rumpled, hair mussed—but she schools her expression back to a careful neutral as she peers into the room to where Napoleon is still sprawled across the bed.

“I fell out of the bed,” Illya tells her, words tumbling out in a rush, and it would be almost comical except for Napoleon can’t quite find anything humorous in the moment.

“I see,” Gaby says cautiously. “Well, as long as you’re both ok.”

“Just peachy,” Napoleon pretty much groans.

Illya flees the room after that, leaving Gaby to help Napoleon out of the bed and into his wheelchair. It’s another thing he doesn’t really need assistance with anymore, but this morning he is happy to accept her steadying hands.

“Did… did something happen?” she murmurs hesitantly as she clutches his elbow.

“Not unless you count sleeping in the same bed as ‘something’,” Napoleon mutters. He doesn’t meet her gaze, but he can feel it pressing on him until he finally looks up. “No. Well. Illya is a bit of a cuddler, as it turns out.”  
  
To his surprise, she just laughs. “Coulda told you that.”

“I’m guessing he doesn’t bolt in terror when he wakes up with you,” Napoleon says dryly.

“Not anymore,” she allows, an almost painfully empathetic smile on her face as his eyebrows arc upward. “The first time we had to share a bed on a mission, I woke up and he was completely wrapped around me like a giant teddy bear. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so embarrassed.”

The mental image is oddly endearing, which only serves to make the dull ache that’s taken up residence in his chest throb harder. “Yeah. Embarrassed. That’s the word for it,” he mutters unconvincingly.

“Napoleon—”

“It’s fine,” he repeats, cutting off whatever she’d been about to say. He’s not really interested, but, then again… “Wait, why didn’t he just sleep in the guest bed with you?”

Gaby hums, clearly reticent to divulge any more even though it certainly _looks_ like she has an idea. “How am I supposed to know?” she lies (she can do better; Napoleon has seen it hundreds of times at this point). “I was asleep.”

“Right,” Napoleon says slowly. The possible reasons are too many to contemplate; who knows what might have changed between them over the past three weeks of running missions together, just the two of them? Which is also something he really doesn’t want to think about. “Well. Should we go out for brunch this morning? Might be nice. It’s not even raining.”

“Sure you’re up for that?”

Napoleon sighs. “I haven’t been outside of this apartment in three weeks, and very shortly I think I’m going to lose my mind. There’s a place down the block that does a divine eggs benedict, and I can certainly roll my way that far.”

“Sounds good to me,” Gaby says with a shrug. “I’ll let Illya know. Do you need help getting dressed?”

He knows she means should she go get Illya to help him, but that’s certainly not something he can face at the moment. “I’ll manage,” he answers, and if she notices the tightness in his voice she doesn’t say anything. God bless her.

By the time he gets himself out of the bathroom and dressed in something like actual clothing, the tension in the apartment has mostly dissipated. Illya has seemingly decided to mostly ignore whatever happened that morning, which is fine. Napoleon can ignore it too; he can ignore with the best of them. (He cannot, however, quite ignore the sharp knife of pain in his chest whenever Illya flinches away from his touch.)

They’re halfway to the restaurant when the skies open. Because of course they do. Illya immediately peels off his raincoat and uses it to cover Napoleon’s cast, letting the chill rain soak through his own clothes seemingly without a second thought. Because of course he does. Only Illya could manage to make kindness a form of torture.

All it ever does is rain.

* * *

One of the first thing Napoleon does when he trades his wheelchair and cast for crutches and a boot is head to the tiny gym in his apartment building. ‘Gym’ might be putting it generously, to be perfectly honest; it’s not much more than a few sets of free weights and weight machines, a stationary bike, and a treadmill. He’s never had reason to even investigate it before now, what with the perfectly lovely and top-of-the-line gym in UNCLE HQ, but he’s not really in a position to go over there with any regularity yet. And so, the minuscule apartment gym will have to do to help him work off some of this restless energy.

He doesn’t expect anyone else to be using said gym when he hobbles his way down there one weekday afternoon, and he certainly doesn’t expect the occupant to be an absurdly attractive man about his age. The first sight that greets him when he swings open the door is a muscular, broad back straining under a tight navy t-shirt with ‘EMS’ printed across the back in large, yellow block letters. Napoleon doesn’t even realize he’s staring until the other man apparently finish his reps and glances back at him.

“Oh, sorry, were you waiting for this machine?” he asks, jumping off the bench and snatching up a towel to mop his face.

The man who’s currently giving him an almost apologetical look is tall—maybe even a hair taller than Illya, which is rather stunning in and of itself—and blond, with an open face that seems to fall naturally into an easy smile. He also quite unmistakably checks out Napoleon as he’s standing there on his crutches, eyes dragging with interest down his body.

“N–no,” Napoleon says as he tries to blink himself out of his stupor. “I just didn’t expect anyone else to be down here now.”

“I work the night shift most days,” the other man explains with a vague gesture at the FDNY insignia on his chest, “so I usually come down here in the day when most people are at work.”

Napoleon finds his face falling into an answering smile without even thinking about it. “So what you’re saying is that I’m the one interrupting?” he smirks.

“Definitely not,” the man scoffs. “Plenty of space for both of us. I’m Paul, by the way.”  
  
He takes a step forward, starting to stick out his hand before he glances at the crutches again and seems to think better of it, settling on a slightly awkward wave instead. Now that he comes closer Napoleon can see that his eyes are blue, but dark like the ocean in a storm—not too dissimilar to Napoleon’s, in fact—instead of the arctic blue of sea ice. Napoleon pushes _that_ thought well out of his head and offers a small wave in return.

“I’m Napoleon, but most people call me Solo,” he says, grinning at the surprised arch of Paul’s eyebrows.

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Paul replies. “You’re recovering from an injury, I take it?”

Napoleon glances down at the boot on his foot and nods. “Broken ankle. Just got the cast off yesterday.”

“Congrats. Well, I should let you get to your workout. But let me know if, you know, you need a spotter or anything.”

“Thanks, I will,” Napoleon says.

They each split off to do their own thing, after that: Napoleon grabs a couple of dumbbells while Paul takes the treadmill. With little else to look at in the small room, Napoleon finds his gaze drawn to the other man, watching the muscles in his legs flex as he runs. Of course, this just reminds him of his usual habit of surreptitiously watching _Illya’s_ legs as his partner runs at UNCLE HQ, which in turn makes him contemplate what kind of horror Illya would regard him with if he knew, and none of this is making it easy to concentrate on his workout. He ends up turning himself toward the wall and trying to think about _anything_ else besides his partner. It mostly works.

Eventually Paul finishes his run and steps off the treadmill, the long line of his throat working alluringly as he guzzles his water. It would honestly probably be better if Napoleon kept his distance, especially now, but, well, he _could_ use a spotter. “Can I enlist your services?” he asks, gesturing to the leg press. “I probably should have some backup.”

“Sure,” Paul agrees gamely as he slings his towel over his shoulder.

Napoleon hobbles over to the machine and gets set up with his good leg. After nearly a month in a wheelchair he knows he’s going to be weak, but he tries to push it a bit anyway; might as well, since he has a spotter. Paul takes his position near the weights and watches Napoleon begin his first set.

“So I take it your usual spotter was unavailable?” Paul asks casually when Napoleon takes a break.

Napoleon nods, trying to catch his breath. “Out of town.”

“Is that your partner, then?”

Napoleon cocks an eyebrow at him, because this question would seem to suggest that Paul has at least some knowledge of Illya’s comings and goings. There’s nothing about Paul to suggest any subterfuge, but a spy who’s not paranoid is a dead spy.

“I just happened to notice him around a lot lately. Always gets off the same floor,” Paul explains. “And then I saw both of you with a woman the other day, when I was on my way home from work. Promise I’m not watching you or anything,” he adds, gaze dropping to the floor as the tips of his ears darken, “I didn’t even know you lived in this building before that.”

There’s not a lick of anything about what he says that suggests he’s lying. Besides, Napoleon knows UNCLE thoroughly checked out all the other tenants of the building, too, so the chance that he’s an enemy spy is pretty low. He nods, and does not expect Paul’s next question.

“How long have you been together?”

“Oh, we’re not— well, we _are_ , partners, that is, but only— er, professionally,” Napoleon stammers awkwardly. Something lodges itself in his throat, and he takes a drink from his water bottle to try to clear it. “He’s just— just a friend.”

He does not miss the pleased expression that slides onto Paul’s face at that, although it’s still accompanied by a bit of confusion. “Oh,” he says, “that’s… nice of him, to come by so much.”

“Well, I think he probably blames himself for my broken ankle,” Napoleon blurts before he realizes what he’s saying. “I mean, that’s not—” he cuts off, shaking his head at himself. “He’s a good friend.”

“It’s good you have friends you can rely on like that.”

“Yeah,” Napoleon agrees. “I’m pretty lucky.”

He is. He knows he is. He just wishes he could feel like it right now.

* * *

It comes as no surprise when Paul invites him to dinner the next day when they meet at the gym. What does come as a surprise—to Napoleon, at least—is that Napoleon turns him down, though in a way that certainly doesn’t preclude any future invitations. Paul seems pretty sanguine about it, and continues to flirt aggressively for the rest of the time, so Napoleon is pretty sure it’s only a matter of time before he gets asked again.

The thing is, he probably still needs at least a little time. Time to finally let go of the last, minute hope that might have been lingering on inside him. Now that he finally knows that he’s never going to have the kind of relationship he wants with his partner, that Illya is never going to return his feelings, he can move on. Move forward. There are many practical reasons for why it is better this way, even if knowing that does nothing for the dull ache in his chest. It was stupid to let himself get in this deep, and now he’s paying for it, but eventually he’ll be ok. He will. He’s gotten over worse. (That last part? That’s maybe not true, not if he’s being honest, but he tells himself anyway.)

He holds out for most of a week before he finally accepts the invitation to dinner at Paul’s apartment, and lets himself be drawn into the arms of a tall, beautiful, blond-haired, blue-eyed man. There’s nothing about this particular night that should be that unusual for Napoleon, save for the fact that he hasn’t actually slept with anyone in quite a while, but the entire experience leaves him aching the next day, and not only from the, er, _strenuous_ activity.

It’s not that he doesn’t have a good time; Paul is a generous lover and a genuinely wonderful man, and under other circumstances Napoleon would no doubt be seeing him again. But Napoleon is still too raw from Illya’s rejection, still far too hung up on his partner after nearly a month of something approaching domestic bliss, and more than once he finds himself fantasizing that it is Illya beneath him in the bed instead of his attractive neighbor. Which is just not fair for _anyone_.

And then Illya shows up a day early, catching Napoleon completely unprepared.

He hadn’t even bothered to put on a pajama shirt, had just belted a robe over his pajama bottoms and called it good. Not like he’s expecting anyone that day; Illya and Gaby weren’t due back until tomorrow, and he’d already decided that he wouldn’t be venturing to the building’s gym. He had no plans other than puttering around his apartment and trying to distract himself from the dull throb of pain in his chest that comes from longing for something you know you’ll never have, so when he hears the distinct sound of a key in the lock of his front door it is more than a little disconcerting. He’s in the kitchen, taking stock of his pantry, and immediately comes hobbling out to the entryway without even bothering to grab his crutches.

It’s unclear whether he is more surprised to see Illya, or Illya is more surprised to see him up and moving around. And, he realizes too late, with bruises courtesy of Paul on full display. Not that it should matter, _really_ , it’s not like Illya and Gaby haven’t both seen evidence of Napoleon’s trysts before, but for some reason, it seems to matter this time. The look Illya gives him is some strange combination of anger, disappointment, and hurt; it’s frankly a bit hard for Napoleon to parse, but he supposes Illya is probably just annoyed at him for potentially endangering his recovery.

“What? You didn’t expect me to stay cooped up in here forever, did you, Peril?” he asks, with an insouciant swagger that he decidedly does not feel.

Illya just grunts in reply, staring hard at Napoleon for another moment before he turns abruptly and walks off toward the kitchen without bothering to take off his shoes or outerwear. Rain drips down off his coat and spatters onto Napoleon’s hardwood floors, which is really the least of his concern right now, but somehow this is what his brain latches onto.

“Hey,” he calls after Illya, “you’re getting water everywhere!”

“It will dry,” Illya growls as he goes.

Napoleon hobbles after his partner and makes it to the kitchen in time to see him drop the water-logged paper bag unceremoniously on the counter. “Yeah, but why don’t you—”

“Can’t stay,” Illya interrupts. It’s a poor lie, and he knows it. His lips practically disappear as his mouth presses into a thin line, and he won’t meet Napoleon’s eyes. He’s clearly upset, but Napoleon doesn’t understand why; he’s never seemed that bothered before by Napoleon’s dalliances, so why should things be different now? Unless…

Unless he somehow _knows_ what made this one different. What if he ran into Paul on his way up? What if Paul said something to imply… well, anything really, Illya is a _spy_ , he can certainly put two and two together. The conclusions he would draw about hispartner sleeping with someone who unmistakably resembles him, especially so soon after the _bed_ incident, are unlikely to be erroneous. And that— _that_ could be a problem.

Illya is already on the move again, pushing past Napoleon as he makes a beeline for the front door. His long strides are even more frustrating than normal because Napoleon has no hope of catching him, but he limps after him anyway, wincing against the pain in his ankle when he puts too much weight on it.

“Illya, wait,” he implores as his partner reaches the front door again. The chance that Illya will actually stay are slim, but to Napoleon’s surprise he pauses, hand still on the knob, his shoulders bound up into a tight line of tension. Napoleon stops a ways away, half hunching over and breathing hard from the exertion of trying to run after him. “Will you— will you tell me what’s wrong?”

For a moment he thinks Illya might not say anything, but then he finally glances back at Napoleon. “Nothing is wrong, Cowboy,” he answers, his face now a careful, placid mask. He seems to consider something, then adds conversationally, “Waverly said you might come in tomorrow.”

Napoleon is briefly stunned at this shift, and it leaves him with his mouth hanging open like some kind of fish. He wants to argue that _clearly_ something is wrong, he’s not an idiot, and if they don’t get it out in the open, whatever it is will just fester between them.

“That was the plan,” he says instead. Taking the easy out because he’s too afraid of the real answer (god dammit). Because the opportunity to fall back into their old patterns, as if the last month hadn’t actually happened, is apparently too seductive for the both of them.

“Good,” Illya says with a nod. It almost sounds like he means it. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah,” Napoleon replies distantly. “See you tomorrow, Peril.”

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of hate leaving things unresolved, but I have to remind myself they're not really! Go (re)read the last chapter of [Little By Little](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27840028/chapters/68158756) to get the delicious resolution of all this angst.
> 
> The backgammon thing comes from Napoleon's file in the credits. And please do not @ me about cassoulet if you're a cook and Know Things, I did take a few creative liberties with the timeline on making it because I just really wanted it to be that dish. So sue me.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and thank you in advance for all your comments and kudos. TMFU is like the little fandom that could; I love you all so much, and the fact that so many people still love reading about these idiots five years later certainly only adds fuel to the writing fire.


End file.
